collision of mind and heel
by faorism
Summary: Zoro/Sanji, PWP: Sanji puts on a dress for the night.


_Notes_: NC-17. Set post-time skip, and features transgender/genderqueer themes, sex, elements of D/s, and Sanji in a dress. First&second-person POV.

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><p>It won't be long; it's so late already: you'll be here soon. Unless you're lost, dead in a ditch, or fighting a thousand baddies in the local pirate hangout. I wouldn't put it past you to come in, clambering, sweat and blood spiking your hair. (It wouldn't be the first time, and I doubt two years would have changed you that much.) But for now, the room is quiet and the shades are shut.<p>

I consider going into the bathroom to make sure I don't look like a complete fool, but don't for two reasons: one, it would be extremely awkward if you catch me in transit; and two, I doubt I can make it there in these heels without breaking my neck. So, I sit. And I wait. And I wonder how you will react; if you will immediately identify this episode for what it really is. You know me well enough that you just might. That, and you also know that I when I catch you looking at other men, I can never find it in myself to get jealous; but... when your gaze is directed toward a girl, I cannot breathe. It's hilarious considering who _I_ am, what _I_ do... plus the fact that we're not even that serious. We fuck and we fight. I cook. You get lost. We are just nakama, who occasionally fuck... and fight, sometimes both at the same time. Nothing serious and yet—

I jump as I hear your boots thud heavily against the weathered floor, the sounds of your swords' scabbards a telling cacophony resounding on the other side of the hotel room's door. And as you unlock and slip through the door, I catch sight of you and my mind... blanks. Kind of like what it does when I'm spinning—whirling—throwing my legs across the air in an attack. I instinctively relax into a pose that will entice you: moving to the middle of the mattress, my body curves serpentinely; my lips smirk seductively; and my eyes—oh, my eyes have that look that makes you go crazy. (If only I could stop my legs from shaking, I would be perfect.)

You mutter a noncommittal hello and, without really seeing me, cross the room to sit on the foot of the bed. You carefully remove your scabbards, sash and coat with a swordman's precision, and your back stretches as you bend and yank off your shoes; your socks. I see the muscles in neck pull as you turn toward me haphazardly.

You stop.

"Good evening, love," I smile. I bat my eyes, flexing my lithe form in a gentle, wonderful twist. "You look tired. Maybe I can make you feel a little better."

Lips frozen in an awkward frown, you stare as if I am not really here—as if I will disappear the second you turn away. You blink as your unscarred eye flys from my glossed smeared lips to my gaudy dangling earrings before finally resting on my silver powdered eyes. Your expression never changes, and you do not even dare to look down, nor do you break eye contact, impassively watching me as if I hold the answers to any and all of your questions. I may, but you do not ask them and I am suddenly so horrified by my own audacity to even try and guess what you are going to say.

"Sanji."

Oh, if only you can hear your voice: so bewildered and curious and quiet with a hint of raw sensuality that always seems to exist in your voice. In what can be conceived as pure luck, your repeating my name holds no accusatory bitterness, but I still hold my breath; I'll wait for the shock to recede in order to properly gauge your reaction. (After all, you're an idiot, and it does take you a while to think through things...)

"That is my name (unless, of course, you desire it to be otherwise)."

Although everything in me screams at me to stay put, I force my body to move forward and stretch my limbs in a coy way that must be appealing to you. "What is it that you wish from me,_ sir_?"—The further I got in the sentence, the more my query sounded like a purr; so much so that the address at the end barely exited from my lips in the form of an actual word and not a guttural mewl.

You are calm, calculating, as you always are, and I feel a bitter swell in my stomach (Was I hoping for something... more?). The tone of your voice is just that as you say, "Why?"

I pause to breathe. You know that I am stalling.

"I wanted to look nice for you." I bite my lip, and the tackiness of the lip gloss sticks to my teeth. "Don't you think I'm"—I waver—"pretty?"

Shit. I said too much.

A shuttering gasp escapes me before I even notice your hand on my cheek. Instantly, I break our mutual staring, it being too much for me in conjunction with this new development. A rush of acceptance flows through me, even though I know that a simple touch is not enough to confirm that you appreciate my temporary metamorphosis. Leaning into your palm before I can stop myself, I lick my lips into a wicked smile and bat my lashes some more before muttering _sir_ again, only this time it's into your skin instead of the tense air between us.

Your free hand is now against my thigh, running up the slick fabric of my... dress. (I picked it out, you know. All the choices were so very deliberate: deep, night sky blue that is so dark that one could mistake it for black given the right lighting; elegant silk; and a cut to die for (you may not notice now, but it is. Floor-length, sleeveless, complicated webbing along the span of my spine, and slit in the back for, well, easy access). I've... worn dresses before: they were pink and malformed blobs and while I had... fun in them, I wanted something... nice for tonight. ...Damn this hesitation shit.)

It's a pretty little thing, and the dress fits like a second skin. It can be all for naught, however, with one second of disgust—or horror—or plain disinterest from you. You hold all the power right now, and I know you know it, and I know you hate it when I give myself over to you so completely in our bedtime trysts. You want an equal, someone who you can push and expected to push back, and I offer you that on the Thousand Sunny, when we train, and everywhere else. But not here. Here, I cannot help but be submissive: it's just the way I am built; it's just one of the ways I _enjoy_ sex; but you still are uncomfortable with the thought of dominating me.

Tonight is not about that. I hope you will understand.

Maybe you won't see my humiliating vulnerability tonight as I surrender this part of me—one that so, so few people know. Maybe you will only see a sexy vixen baiting you with coos and sleek, practically nonexistent curves (just the way I like them). Maybe...

You shift toward me. Your hand moves from my cheek to my chin, and our eyes meet. You lean closer.

"Okay."

Your lips are against mine in one fell swoop. Immediately, I feel the difference between now and the infinitely many kisses we have shared: my heavy film of gloss both lubricates and thickens every ministration, altering the sensation just enough for the change to sent shivers down mt body. It has no taste.

Our mouths press and retract again and again as I tilt my head slightly to the right in response to the subtle exploration of your tongue. The muscle flickers in your mouth before it flashes out to graze against my teeth, returning to its rightful place before your taste can register in my mind. Sharp expectation jolts throughout my limbs, but disappointment soon pervades because not having more of you—more of your thick, wet tongue—to enjoy is a fucking shame.

Although I am sure you know how impatient I'm getting, you continue to tease (with your just-barely-there tongue; with your fingers occasionally tapping against my skin; with your general sense of being), until I can no long contain my desperation for something more, something real... Something that will tell me that you accept this... part of me. So, with face burning from the blush I have been holding back since this morning, I raise my hands to grip you. One ends up on your shoulder, and the other loses itself in that marimo you call hair. At first, they simply are there, a loose kind of pressure being the only evidence of their presence. Soon, however, each wiry finger pulls and clutches and shivers and yanks until my actions beg more intensely than a verbal cry ever could.

Albeit more hesitantly than usual, a tongue curls around the wall of my lips before sinking between the crevice. Maybe the dress—and the makeup—and the (only slightly different) hair—and the high heels—are a bit of a shock; but this—your exhales warming my teeth—is absolute, wonderful normalcy, and we both find ourselves relaxing at the familiarity of it all. Sinking into your touch, I surrender to the brilliance of your tongue's coaxing, and you can't help but hiss against me in unbridled delight. (See, you enjoy it just as much as I do.) Our lips never stop, tirelessly working toward a state of euphoric excitement.

You nudge me backwards. As we try to move to the center of the mattress, I fall onto my back, taking you down with me. Only one of your legs is on the bed (your right knee is at my hip) but you do not bother lifting its companion, using it as leverage to slide against me. A solitary groan (not sure from who) accompanies your hands' increasing boldness: you begin to languidly knead my inner thighs through the fabric, pushing them apart as far as the dress will allow in this position. Ignoring the hands that hold me down, I dig my heels into the bed, lift my pelvis, and grind it into whatever part of you it met. (Your stomach?)

"_Sanji_."

Shit... Have I ever told you how deliriously enticing you are when you sigh my name like that? Well, if I didn't, then the way I sink my nails into your shoulder and my teeth into your lip can tell you now. You send a hand to touch my leg, and you let out an incredulous chuckle as you realize that, no, I haven't shaved.

Before I can make some sort of remark, your fingertips gently stroke my calf, rubbing minute circles as they sneak higher and higher. We have finally paused in our kissing, taking the time to quietly watch each other as your hand inches upward. Your eyes are intense, yet strikingly soft, as your mind catches up with the rest of you. I can almost see the plethora of thoughts crawling through your head in the precise movements of your lips, brows and eyes. They say so much—yet the only thing I really care about is the overwhelming _acceptance_ that outshines everything else; and its presence makes your touch against my knee all the more... sweet, almost.

Your palm is on my already quivering thigh—and I realize that all my worry was for nothing. You truly enjoy me—all of me—and nothing, not even my delving into this facet of my personality, can change what we have. I am Sanji, you're an idiot, and we fuck and we fight and then fuck some more.

And even beyond our innate interest for one another, I think you might actually be _turned on_ by my getup. No one can fake desire that strong, even with all the love in the world behind him.

(And by love, I mean like.)

Your lips press against my jaw as the hand beneath my dress finally reaches the edge of my—I cannot help but balk at the thought—lace panties which barely contain my smooth balls and mostly flaccid cock. How I ever managed to tuck it all in is beyond me, and the tension of the fabric in combination with the proximity of your fingertips sends a splurge of heat throughout my groin. As a chuckle distinctly more husky than your previous one tickles my neck, your thumb languidly traces the frilly borders of my undergarment, leaving a trail of desperate need in its wake. I want to you to move quicker—do something... anything rushed, rash and reckless—just so I can reach the elation that comes with release; I whine and press my ankle into your elbow.

"Want more, dear?"

I try to come up with something witty, or at least dirty, to say but my mind blanks again, affection and lust flushing my face at the endearment. Then, because you are never one to do something halfassed, your thumb begins to play with some of the rough curls peeking out of the panties, pushing them under the elastic border before drawing them back out.

"Please, _please_."

I moan at the sound of my own desperation, take a fistful of your rugged hair in my grasp, and force you deeper into my neck. As your earring clinks against my Adam's Apple, you bite into me. You gnaw my flesh shallowly, tongue tracing the ring your teeth make against my skin, but the shock of pain is not enough to distract me from the fact that you are sliding my dress over my knees. The slowly revealed exposure is wonderful, and I cannot wait to be freed from the murderous prison that is the lace undergarment. But when your hands hold the bottom of my dress halfway down my thighs, instead of letting them pool at my waist, I'm confused.

Well, that is, until your kiss disappears from my neck, only to be conjured on the panties' frilly border in the next instant. Only half your head is concealed beneath the dress, but I wouldn't want it any other way. Even with your mouth still against the fabric, you manage to make me buck when as your breath burns the crease between my leg and pelvis. I let you exhale onto me for a few seconds until—fuck, _Zoro_—you move your lips over an inch to the bulge of my cock and bury your nose into the fabric and hoarsely breathe in my scent. Then you _lick_. My dick twitches to the disturbingly intimate touch as you suck me through the lace. I think I yelp pathetically, pressing my palm into my eyes with one hand while using the other to clutch onto your hair as if it's the only thing keeping me sane. Your fingers dig into my thigh in response, the dress not nearly enough to cushion me from the sharp edge of your nails.

My dick twitches as your tongue curves around my cock for the umpteenth time; but it's not until your teeth comes into play again, teasing the flesh between my scrotum and erection, that I spasm in a pang of pleasure and heat. My jolt energizes your teasing, which has left the lace to taste my skin again. This time, however, your tongue seeps underneath the frilly border as it takes bold laps at the flesh—hair—whatever it can reach first. Even the small addition of your tongue is almost too much for my undergarment, and the thought as to whether it will last the night—or the next few minutes—causes me to kick you not-so-kindly in impatience. I doubt I can communicate my need in a more... coherent matter, but you seem to get the message. Gripping my thighs even tighter, you drag your lips to the top of the lace and lay dusty kisses to my pelvis bone before taking the frills at my hip. Before I can even finish crying out a string of expletives, you yank the panties down a few inches, quickly move to the other hip, and pull that side down further and further. Once they are at my knees, you duck under them and pause.

Now that I'm finally released, a wave of relief, lust, and pure joy physically lifts the entire length of my body. The panties force my legs to barely part, so my lithe thighs enclose tightly around your head. I feel a shiver run through you as notice this, and ever so slowly, your fingers unclasp themselves from my legs so my dress slips down to my waist. Your hands sink down to either side of my cock, and I smile lightly as I prepare myself for your mouth swallowing me.

"Wait, what—the fuck—Zor—!"

I cannot look down to you; the sensations are so much on their own. Instead, I sink my head as far back into the mattress, pant hysterically, and curl all my digits—all ten fingers and ten toes—in a titillating effort to keep myself from screaming out.

You do not have your lips circling the base of my erection, like I had expected. No, no—that would be too easy. You are playing this scene too well for something like my penis to break the mood. So, in that dull mind of yours, you decided that the best way around this problem is to cup my balls firmly in your right palm while using your left thumb and index to pinch the skin to form a crease. There is an awful lot of tension because of how tightly you hold the flesh together, but I cannot bring myself to complain because—ohshityes—you slip your tongue into the shallow depression and _move_. Occasionally, a pinkie or thumb rubs a subtle pattern; or your pinch relaxes or strengthens; or a bite tickles my flesh; or you suck deeply along the edge of one side of the fold; or your knuckle sweeps across my now hypersensitive perineum. Your salivating mouth would have been more than enough to make this wonderful, but these subtle components make the entire experience that much more... fantastical.

I cannot say how long we continued this moment. It seems to last and last and last and last. None of your actions are enough to heighten my erection, but you instead focus on maintaining the pleasure. Not for a single second am I without a trill of eroticism; not for a second does my mind wander. My energy already feels remarkably spent, so I am literally lying still on my back, sometimes letting a rogue thrust force your tongue to perform some other brilliant work.

I taste the tears before I feel them. My lips are terribly sensitive—even breathing sends tingles throughout my face—so the bitter dryness of salt shatters my trance of utter inactivity. And in an instant, I acknowledge that—fuck me—I need so, so, so much more.

"Zo—Zoro—S—sir..."

"Hmm?"

I yell longingly at the vibration of your silent question. Eyes closing tightly, I heavily draw a hand to my chest, and once there, my fingers drag across my dress' top until they land upon my clothed nipples. I press against the smooth fabric. I do not have nearly enough strength to properly engage in the play, but even the slightest pressure somewhere other than my groin electrifies me. I shiver and shake my head from side to side, as my pants become twice as more haggard as before. I need something more—something that will hazard to satisfy me. Please. Shit. I _need_ you inside me.

Since I'm literally crying for your cock, I barely notice that you've finally stopped with your lingual assault until your face reappears above mine and my tears are lapped with the same intensity you sucked on my tightening balls. My body is limp again, but my erection digs into your stomach; you pay no heed, however, as you hike me up into a sitting position. (You embrace me so I do not fall forward off the bed.) Your palms are against my back, kneading knots of tension away with a docile massage. Their presence only makes me more uncomfortable with fierce desire, which you mildly pacify with a kiss to my collarbone. You let out a little moan and press closer to me until I can feel your own bulge against my bellybutton, albeit with three layers of cloth between us. I wonder why we still have all of our clothes on, and you must have thought the same because you find the bow on the dress' webbing and undo it with a small jerk. After loosening the web, you easily manage to untangle me from the dress.

A blush lights up my face and neck while your eyes rake over the chest you have seen so many times already. I instantly feel inadequate. I may have set up the illusion, but when we get down to it, I am not... I am not. I do not have the breasts that drive most men wild; I do not have a saccharine voice that would lull even the most restless into a supple calm; and the most crucial element: I have not the velvety sex of a lady.

It's strange. Although I am so distinctly wrong for the role I'm playing, you shake with raw lust. You mumble my name affectionately before leaning in to take one of my perk nubs within your lips. The method you use to pleasure me now is ridiculously similar to how you treated my balls, and they clench at the mere memory of your tongue. You leave me, and because I still cannot support myself, I fall back onto the mattress. My panties finally slip down my legs and fall to the floor as I watch you as you step out of your haramaki and with it, your underwear.

The sight of your already pre-cum slick cock is more than enough to undo any reservations I must have had. Using my elbows to leverage, I push my hips upwards and toss my legs upwards, bending my knees to draw you closer the second I hook your shoulders. You drop forward, placing your right knee to my hip once more and your hands at either side of my neck. When I realize that you are actually going to let me leave the dress on, I groan and grab the tube of lube I stashed beneath the pillow.

"I've—I prepped already. Just..."

No more than that was thankfully needed. You drop some of the viscous liquid onto your dick and my ass, not bothering to push some into me with your fingers before your bulbous head penetrates. I moan at the unexpected, but welcome, intrusion. You pull out and push in in the same manner several times, never fully breaching me while leaving me wholly desperate for you in your delicious entirety. And just as I am about to plead for you to take me already, you thrust.

A sharp drawl of pleasure rumbles throughout the columns of my legs. You slide out completely before pushing back in again—and again—and again, your balls slapping against the curve of my ass with every buck. You toss your head back with a hiss as I squeeze around you. I can't move for the life of me (fuck you and your fucking shit foreplay), but you are more than enthusiastic enough for the both of us. You fuck me with such reckless abandonment, such heady fervor, that I lift off the mattress in time with your wild thrusts.

Do I even need to say how fucking amazing I feel right now? How while my fingers (which have returned to my nipples) pale in comparison to what your cock does to me, I cannot stop adding whatever pleasure I can savage to intensify the experience? Or that my lips burn to touch yours, but won't because I enjoy how desperate you make me?

And then you hit my prostrate and I feel like I'm going to die. I cover my face with my hands and groan a bastardized version of your name. Growling, you aim for the same spot twice, hitting it both times. I want to tell you that I will not be able to withstand any more, but I know I really don't care enough to stop you. It feels so fucking good, so why should I tell you to stop? You agree with this sentiment, yanking at the sheets as you force yourself deeper and deeper and faster and harder. I see white. I do not scream, nor gasp, nor cry your name; I just... relax. I no longer feel the difference between one thrust and another. I just... experience everything with a dazed indifference, so even when you groan and come inside me (you really are an asshole, you know that?), I am at ease.

So, this is bliss.

Must be what swimming in All Blue feels like.

You barely have time to let my legs fall from your shoulders before you collapse, and I whine at the offending loss. You heave for air. Your breath is so ragged I am surprised that you have not passed out yet from oxygen deprivation. And with the consideration of a true gentlemanly oaf, you take off my now soiled dress.

We lie together until exhaustion blurs my vision.

"Zoro?"

You don't say anything, opting out by planting a kiss to my neck to show that you are still awake.


End file.
